Velmora

Three horses rode in a perfect triangular formation, followed closely by nearly twenty guards on horseback. At the front rode the first prince, Ares—tall and broad-shouldered, with midnight-black eyes and tousled hair. A confident smirk played on his lips, his chin raised high, radiating pride. Flanking him on either side were his brothers.

To his right was Ronen, the second prince. He wore his long blond hair tied in a neat ponytail. A single earring dangled from his right ear, and his delicate, symmetrical features could easily be mistaken for a noblewoman’s. His hazel eyes were sharp, and his tall, slender frame carried a quiet elegance.

On Ares’s left rode the youngest—Lior. His blond hair, shorter than Ronen’s, brushed his shoulders and hung loose, with stray strands falling over his face. His sea-blue eyes shimmered with unreadable intensity. Though he shared Ronen’s delicate beauty, there was something darker beneath his calm surface, something that made people wonder what secrets swirled behind those eyes.

“Once we’re out of there, run, Ronen. RUN!”

Ronen’s lips curled into a smug smile as Ares’s words echoed in his mind. He remembered the mischievous gleam in Ares’s eyes as they rode out from the castle. Ares had warned him to flee with Lior once they reached the Wyrmsleep Cavern—because he believed without doubt that the sword was his.

His... Ronen chuckled inwardly.

The Sword of Velmora had been sealed in the Wyrmsleep Cavern for a thousand years, cursed by a witch slain by the king’s ancestors. The royal family had branded the witches as sorcerers and hunted them down—not because of wickedness, but because of fear. Fear that the witches’ growing powers would surpass their own. The people had begun to call them “white witches,” praising them for their healing and kindness.

At the end of the witch purge, the head witch, in her final breath, cursed the king’s sword. The king’s sword was more than a weapon—it was his strength, his life force. Since then, no king had been able to wield it. A violent force repelled any who tried. The sword was hidden in the cave and renamed the Sword of Velmora, meaning Veil of fate.

No king had lived past forty since. Desperate, they sought answers until a prophet foretold that only the sword could choose its master. No man could wield it by will—only by the sword’s will. Thus, when a king neared death, it became tradition for his sons to visit the cave and attempt to hold the sword. If one was chosen, he would be king. If none were, the eldest would inherit the crown by default.

Ronen shook his head, baffled by Ares’s recklessness. He’s the eldest, he thought. If the sword doesn’t choose anyone, he becomes king anyway... and dies young too. What is he thinking?

His gaze shifted to his younger brother, Lior. He had grown distant over the past few weeks, ever since Ronen uncovered the truth about his identity—a truth that could cost him his life. Since their mother’s death, Ronen had taken it upon himself to protect Lior, especially from Ares’s sharp eyes. He sighed, wondering when Lior would finally accept who he was.

“Here we are!” Ares announced, leaping down from his horse. The others followed, dismounting behind him.

Ronen tilted his head as he scanned the cave ahead. It wasn’t as terrifying as the stories had said.

The entrance lay low to the ground, like a buried tunnel. Creepers twisted around its mouth like woven threads. The trees nearby were tall, bare, and lifeless. Not a bird chirped. Even the wind tiptoed through the silence.

They approached the cave. Ronen raised a brow at the sight of a narrow staircase leading downward. One by one, they descended. Their footsteps echoed with each step, the sound bouncing deeper and deeper until Ronen lost count.

At last, they stepped into a vast, hollow chamber. A strange scent greeted them—damp moss and bitter ash, as if the cave had swallowed centuries of spells and sorrow. Rough stone walls enclosed the space, and even the smallest sound echoed eerily. In the center stood a pedestal of rock. Atop it rested a sword. Its stone hilt sparkled faintly, and the blade was sleek, dangerously smooth, bathed in a soft golden glow.

It’s really the king’s sword. How could a witch cast such a powerful curse on it?

Ronen recalled the tales—how the sword had injured some princes. His stomach twisted. The longer he stared at the blade, the more it seemed to radiate a dark presence. A chill crept up his spine, raising goosebumps across his skin.

It’s just a touch, Ronen reminded himself. He glanced at Lior and noticed him squinting at the sword, eyes narrowed with focus, as if he saw something no one else could. He probably could. Ronen knew Lior had the gift. Ronen turned back and squinted as well. What did he see?

Then Ares’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “This sword is mine,” he said proudly, approaching with regal steps. “It’s been waiting for me all these years.” His laughter echoed through the chamber.

“Your Highness,” one of the guards said, “you must be cautious—”

“Really?” Ares shot him a glare and scoffed. “Nothing frightens a true king.”

So unreasonable, Ronen clicked his tongue.

Everyone held their breath as Ares approached the sword. Even the cave seemed to fall silent. He reached out—and the moment his fingertips touched the hilt, a deafening boom shook the chamber. Ares was flung backward, slammed against the stone wall, and crumpled to the floor.

Ronen exhaled heavily. He heard Lior do the same.

Guards rushed to help Ares, but he shoved them away, staggering to his feet, blood trickling from his nose.

Ronen’s breath hitched. His gaze locked on the sword. It was his turn now. He shut his eyes, heart thundering. Just one throw. I won’t be thrown twice.

He stepped forward. Then he heard Ares’s mocking laughter—but he ignored it. Slowly, he raised his hands, squeezed his eyes shut, and gripped the sword.

Instantly, golden light engulfed him. His body vibrated like he had touched lightning. Images flashed before his eyes—outstretched hands, screaming witches drowning in a bath of blood, emerald eyes piercing into his soul, with tears of blood streaming down her cheeks.

Ronen screamed.

His hands were stuck, as if invisible hands held them fast. The metallic scent of blood flooded his nose. A bitter, sour taste filled his mouth.

“Please! Please, let me go!” he cried, green veins bulging under his skin like writhing snakes.

The guards rushed over and yanked him back. The sword clanged to the floor, its glow still circling the blade.

Ronen collapsed, panting. Sweat dripped from his brow. He stared at the sword, wide-eyed, heart hammering like fists against a door.

What just happened? Did I really see the witches?

His stomach knotted. The chill beneath his skin deepened. He remembered the visions—the witches crawling, wailing in blood. So much pain. Why did they deserve such an end?

He took a shaky breath to steady himself.

A laugh echoed through the cave.

“You think you can do what I couldn’t?” Ares mocked. “Are you kidding me?”

“I can do it.”

Ares blinked. All heads turned toward the youngest prince.

Ronen frowned, watching Lior stare at the sword, eyes burning with something only he could see. What could Lior see?

“You can do it?” Ares scoffed. “Go ahead.” He waved mockingly. “Show your strength.”

All eyes followed Lior as he approached the sword. Ronen held his breath.

Lior knelt and gripped the sword.

The golden glow shifted—turning blue, soft and calm, wrapping around his hand and the blade. Ronen blinked, stunned.

Lior studied a particular part of the sword. Then he lifted it to his face. The glow dimmed, revealing glowing text carved into the blade.

No one had ever seen that before.

“It’s a spell,” one of the guards whispered. “The witch’s spell is carved on the sword.”

Everyone stared—mouths agape, eyes wide. Lior stood, unharmed.

“Only the one who carries my blood and my truth shall wield the blade again,” Lior read aloud. “Let the blade serve only the worthy,” he paused, brows furrowed, “and devour the wicked.”

He looked up.

Then froze.

His mouth parted. He had just revealed his secret—only a witch could read spells.

The sword dropped from his hand. He clamped his hand over his mouth as the words echoed in his head.

Only the one who carries my blood and my truth shall wield the blade again.

“What?” Ronen whispered.

The truth hit him hard. Only someone with witch blood could break the curse… and become king? Irony. The very people the kingdom feared and branded as sorcerers would now rule.

Ronen smirked.

“That’s impossible!” Ares bellowed. Muscles tensed. His eyes blazed. “You think a witch-blood will rule us? Never! The law demands witches be executed. Lior must die!”

He unsheathed his sword and lunged.

Ronen reacted without thinking. He snatched the Sword of Velmora and swung.

The blade slashed Ares’s arm. He stumbled back, gripping the wound.

“Stay away from my brother! You’re no king, Ares. And your mischief ends here!”

Ares’s eyes widened at the sight of the sword in Ronen’s hands. Then he sneered.

“See? You’re holding it now. That means the curse is broken. Anyone can use it. It’s over for you now, Ronen.”

Ronen hesitated, glancing at the sword. It pulsed gently in his grip. No violent glow, just a soft blue shimmer.

But before he could move, Ares swung at him.

The sword flew from Ronen’s grasp.

Ares lunged to claim it—but the sword lifted into the air and drove itself into his stomach.

Gasps erupted. Blood sprayed. Ares dropped to his knees as the blade sank deeper, as if guided by an unseen hand.

“Let the blade serve only the worthy,” Lior murmured, stumbling back, his eyes heavy. “And devour the wicked.”

Ronen dropped to his knees, trembling. Ares’s body stiffened and collapsed like a broken statue. The metallic scent of blood filled the room. Ronen grimaced at the bitter taste on his tongue.

His eyes shimmered with tears. He clenched his fists into his lap. Ares’s boyish smile flashed in his mind—sparring in the mud, running like commoners. But then... under his mother’s influence, his thirst for power consumed him.

Still, Ronen had hoped the old Ares would return.

Just once.

Tears rolled down Ronen’s cheeks. His body shook. His lips quivered.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t save him.

I’m sorry. I’m... sorry.

The cave fell into a solemn hush, mourning Ares’s death.

Minutes later, as the guards prepared to carry Ares’s body back to the castle, Ronen stepped toward Lior and offered him the Sword of Velmora.

“This is your sword. Show it to the people. Let them know their new king.”

Lior stared at the sword, then shook his head.

“The sword is at peace now.” He met Ronen’s eyes. “I never wanted to be king.”

A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips. His eyes shimmered with unshed emotion. “You can have it. And now, I don’t have to hide who I am.”

A soft laugh escaped them both. They locked eyes, tears threatening to spill.

Ronen nodded, his smile spreading. “You don’t have to anymore, Lior. And we don’t have to run anymore.”

Thanks for reading my flash story. I would love to hear your thoughts and your reactions to it. Thanks!